


Dark Match

by SpaMightWrite



Series: Burgundy & Black [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:49:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4796639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaMightWrite/pseuds/SpaMightWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where it all started: stuck in dark match limbo, an offer from William Regal to quell the bizarre static in Dean Ambrose's mind takes a turn they never expected.</p><p>Prequel to Burgundy & Black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Hey guess who isn't dead. SO AFTER A LENGTHY HIATUS FROM FIC WRITING, I'M BACK, AND WITH A BRAND NEW STORY. Because lol finishing stories, who does that. (I promise, I am actually working on other fics, just... this one was also in the tank back since April, so. Yeah.) This is a prequel to Burgundy & Black, and was cowritten, once again, with the lovely SpaMightWrite. Read, review, yell at me on Tumblr, have a blast.
> 
> And thank you all for the lovely comments and messages checking in on me. You're all angels.

There was a small, red-streaked dent in the cold gray aluminum of the locker door.

And the knuckles on Dean Ambrose's right hand were throbbing, oozing blood slowly, glaring right back into his rage-twisted face.

He always thought it a little odd they called them "dark matches", the non-televised exhibitions that ran before and after airtime. The lights were still on, just as bright and blinding as they were when the cameras were rolling. But the crowd might be filing in or out at the time they were performing, and often it was lesser-known performers getting some time in the ring.

It was only at this time did Dean Ambrose get any chance to test his mettle.

But there was so little of it to go around. No chance to talk on the mic, maybe five minutes to roll around with his opponent that had been in the business for far fewer years than he.

And often the crowd was entirely neutral on him, and the outcome. Sure they clapped and cheered when something interesting happened or when the match ended, but the energy was different. He felt such a tenuous connection with the people watching that he thought he might have gone invisible.

They were just being polite at that point.

Xavier Woods was no pushover. A great performer, to be sure, a nice guy. It wasn't his fault.

It was just the time and place. An unfortunate set of circumstances.

The moment Dean had fallen for the three count, he felt himself starting to boil inside the pit of his stomach. The crowd had been unruly throughout their match, and not in the usual way. The chants had nothing to do with what was happening, they were clearly uninterested in the whole thing.

Shit. Some guy even tried to start a "U-S-A" chant.

"I'm from OHIO!" Dean had roared in his general direction.

Xavier picked up his win with far less pop than he deserved. Dean rolled out of the ring as he celebrated and stomped back to the locker room, finding it entirely empty but for the scattered bags and the echoes of his footsteps.

And before he knew it he was sitting hunched over on the bench, nursing his bloodied hand with a pained wince. He remembered hearing a shout and a loud banging, and he could guess from the results that both had come from him.

He buried his face in his hands and attempted to slow his breathing. The impact had done little to silence the static scratching about his brain and his limbs for the long term, but at least it was just a little quieter now. He itched a little bit less on his skin. His eyes had ceased darting about with such speed.

It used to be easier to find any semblance of peace. When he was going through a pane of glass or getting pushed into barbed wire every week, he hardly remembered he could feel so precarious at all.

And before that, the substances he put into his body would at least keep them quiet for a time.

But for both solutions, the damage to his body, his psyche, outweighed the benefits.

Thus he'd gone on without it for a little while. It helped to be wrestling regularly, getting a steady paycheck, being able to eat three hot meals a day. He did make a habit of letting his opponents know that he didn't mind a stiff shot every now and then.

Yet it was getting to be too much, being relegated to small audiences, crowds who didn't know or care who he was. Spending time off the air when he knew, and everyone else knew, that he was more than ready for it.

And no one knew better how difficult it was for him than his mentor, who apparently happened to have been passing by the locker room at the moment of impact.

Sir William Regal, dressed to the nines as always in a three-piece suit and a look of concern, poked his head through a crack in the door, fully prepared to start berating someone for making unnecessary noise or destruction of property or some other slight against the locker room at large.

Then he noticed who it was. With a sigh and a hand running through his bangs, he sidled in and let the door shut behind him slowly in an attempt not to startle his protege. To no avail - he cringed as Dean jumped up from the bench and sighed when he saw who the intruder was. The younger man collapsed back down and scowled at his bleeding hand.

William sat on the bench opposite to him and put his chin in his hand. "I hope Mr. Woods didn't jostle you too badly. Because you may have mistaken that locker for Seth Rollins."

The younger man rolled his eyes, sneering at William, before his voice, scratchy and dripping with sarcasm, spat out, "Oh, have fuckin' jokes, do you?" Flexing his hand to make sure it wasn't broken, he hissed in pain at the skin tugging, watching as the minor wound had already started to taper off the bleeding. Bringing the cut up to his mouth, he sucked at it briefly, partially to clean his hand of what bits of blood he could easily remove, partially because in some odd way he had grown accustomed to tasting his own blood and it anchored him. Looking up at the older man, sucking at a bloodied knuckle, his free hand rested on his thigh, tapping uneven rhythms against his bare skin, the slight bit of static starting to reach deep into his marrow once more. Finally bringing his hand away from his mouth, he groaned out, "Fuck, what the fuck do you  _want_."

"Mainly to see what the noise was about, but the question has been answered. We can move on to the tertiary portion of this visit." William shrugged and stepped away for a moment, returning with a small plastic box from the trainer's office. He sat back down next to Dean on the bench, mere inches away. The box clicked open and he pulled out a bit of gauze and some tape.

He nodded down at Dean's hand, still slowly budding with blood at each knuckle. "If you'd like to hand that over to me, I'd be happy to toss on something that might heal it faster than just saliva."

Dean looked at him from the side of his eye, suspicious even of his mentor at this point, simply for the amount of fuzz infecting his brain as they spoke. And yet, he let his hand reach forward, averting his gaze. It was difficult enough admitting that he wanted - much less needed - anyone's help with anything. But he wasn't in the hardcore wrestling scene anymore. He could actually afford better care. And he was in a big enough promotion that he would have to take advantage of it if he wanted to keep his job.

William gently held Dean's fingers in one palm while he assessed his injuries. They weren't deep, thankfully the damage was relegated to skin abrasions. He retrieved some antiseptic from the box and gently dabbed a cotton ball over the cuts, drawing a few hissed gasps from Dean.

In contrast to his verbal reaction, the pain shot up through his hand into his arm, loosening some of the thorns around his psyche. It wasn't the first time Dean had felt like this, but the fact that it was William, treating him gently but still causing him pain, was fucking with his head in a way he didn't exactly need at the moment.

He pulled his hand away sharply, shaking it in the air to let some of the stinging sensation wear away, mouth moving with words he realized seconds later were actually said aloud. "Would you cut the fuckin' shit, Christ, I can take care of my fuckin' self!" Flexing his fist once more, he made a slight sound of approval, before shrugging. "I mean, shit, always kinda did. S'why I punched the fuckin' locker in the first place." Looking back at William, he saw the confusion on the older man's face, and instantly Dean regretted even speaking.

"Nah, don't give me that look, I'm just sayin'. When shit gets all weird up here, I just gotta… bleed it out or somethin'. Why the fuck you think I did all them deathmatches or whatever? A fuckin' bloody hand ain't gonna throw me off, I've had glass shards in my goddamn intestines. Got wrapped up in barbed wire. Light tubes, all that shit. So come off it, I'm good."

He wasn't sure why he had decided that was good information to share with him, but there was something about William Regal that had resonated deeply with Dean, even from a young age. It was his brashness, his absolute inability to  _not_  be villainous, even when he was supposed to be a face, and there had been something Dean recognized in the accepting look that he had been given before his knee came to the side of William's head that final night in FCW. Some deep, dark part of him knew that William  _understood_ , and maybe that's why his mouth was running a mile a minute.

"'Sides, I mean, last time shit's really felt fuckin' right up here," he tapped at the side of his head with his finger, the harsh movements jarring at the swollen knuckles, "was when we had our shit back in FCW. And, fuck, ain't even got that anymore. I'm sittin' here like a lame fuckin' duck, gettin' no goddamn appreciation and it's goin' through me sideways. So excuse the fuck outta me if I seem a bit on fuckin' edge and decide that maybe makin' sure that  _someone_ 's bleedin' might be the only thing that can fix this."

He bit at the cracked skin of his lip, eyes still a wild ice blue, the aggression and adrenaline having not fully left his system yet. "I mean, whatever the fuck 'this' is."

William tried his best to hide the sympathy from his facial expression. He knew Dean wouldn't want any of that, anyway. But he knew, had known for a while, that something had never quite been right with the way Dean decompressed from his various anxieties. It had never been a matter of venting anger, never about being unable to control himself.

It was as if there was something constantly shouting at him, scratching at his blood from the inside out, and the only way to make it stop was to… let it out.

This was never anything Dean had to even say, even though William was relieved at this moment to hear him articulate it aloud. It was clear in the way he conducted himself in and out of the ring. Reckless, heedless, absolutely unwilling to hold back.

"You don't have to do this," William insisted quietly, stopping short as the door to the locker room opened once more to let in several different wrestlers looking to shower and retrieve their things. It wasn't unusual for William and Dean to be talking with each other, but one look at Dean tensing up next to him made it clear he didn't want anyone else to hear the conversation at hand.

He pulled a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket and jotted down an address. While watching to make sure no one was staring their way, he slipped the paper into Dean's hand, along with the gauze and tape he'd planned on treating him with before he snatched his hand back.

"There are other ways to help with that," William muttered to him, standing up and straightening his tie. "Meet me this evening at that address after you've cleaned up and we can speak about it." As he stepped away from the bench he swallowed hard at the prospect. It wasn't just as simple as recommending a book for him to read. This was a conversation that had to be taken seriously, with time, and outside of the gaze of anyone else they knew.

Taking the slip of paper into his palm, Dean couldn't help but raise his eyebrow at the insinuation, wondering what sort of establishment he'd be finding himself in with someone that had such a sordid past as one William Regal. Nodding quietly, he crumbled up the paper slightly in his fist. "Yeah, yeah aight, fine. See you there or whatever. Better not be anythin' fuckin' weird, just tellin' you the fuck now."

The small grin that he received from the older man didn't assuage his nerves, but then again, nothing really ever had.

* * *

The dilapidated pick-up truck paused in the parking lot of the bar that was apparently his destination, and some deep part of Dean had suggested perhaps turning around, of telling William that he was fine, he didn't need any help, he could figure this out on his own. However, his twisted, morbid curiosity at what the fuck could be suggested that would stop this unwelcome static spurred him forward, making him park the jalopy that pretended to be a working vehicle, his half-smoked cigarette crammed into a makeshift ashtray of a paper cup from catering with some water in it.

Hopping out of the truck, his long legs still aching somewhat from the work of the match, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his tattered jeans, the creaking of his leather jacket as his shoulders were hunched up allowing his brain to ignore the ambient noise of low chatter in this bar that was definitely not the dives he would usually frequent. He was usually the type to pick a stool straight up at the bar, but with the way people were already watching him with a cautious eye, his pedigree of the lower East End of Cincinnati speaking for him through his aura, he opted for a booth in the far back corner, hoping to avoid the judgmental stares of the aspiring bourgeoisie.

The tiny waitress that made her way over barely had a moment to offer for a menu for food, before he asked for whiskey, three fingers, straight. With a curt nod, she turned right back around to get him his drink, and he couldn't help but appeal to his more lascivious nature, watching her walk away with his focus solely on her behind, before he was woken from his thoughts with a throat clearing and a low laugh.

"Funny," William muttered as he sat down at the opposite side of the table. "I don't think I've ever seen you so very much...  _yourself_ until now." He nodded back towards the waitress. "She may not quite be your speed, however. I believe I saw a ring on her finger."

Dean broke out of his funk for just a moment to let out a mirthless laugh. "Ain't ever stopped me before, man. Just bein' honest…" He shrugged and mumbled out a thank-you to the waitress as she returned with his drink, avoiding eye contact with her this time.

"I'll have the same," the older man said, smiling, allowing the woman time to leave before turning his attention back to Dean. His mouth tensed and his eyes chilled into a much more serious gaze. "Now. About this habit of yours."

" _Habit_ ," he chuckled again, rolling his eyes in a way that he knew would piss William off. "Ain't a habit. Ain't anything I'd have trouble stopping if I wanted to. Just my way of dealing with it."

"It", meaning the incredible noise, barraging him constantly from the inside of his own head. The thing he'd been getting used to for years and yet could never be rid of for very long. The exact thing he wanted absolutely nobody else to know was still bothering him now that he was supposed to have everything together for himself, for his life as an up and coming superstar.

And yet, if anyone was going to understand what he meant… it would be the man staring back at him with nearly the same color in his eyes.

Fuck it.

"Just. Makes it shut up for a while," he began to explain, picking at his cuticles for a second until the waitress bringing William's drink had disappeared again. "It ain't a problem, even. Used to do way worse, I mean, you probably seen the scars on my back from the shit I used to get myself into. Punch a locker every now and then, chew up my nails, maybe lean into a punch if I feel like it… Better'n light tubes." He glanced up at William for a second and scoffed at the look in his eyes. "What, you worried about me, old man? I got this shit on lock way better'n I used to. Can take care of myself, yeah?"

It wasn't necessarily the snark that Dean was tossing his way. What was making William's blood simmer was the flippant way he described the way he was destroying himself. Someone with as much talent, who'd worked so hard to get where he was, who had so much to offer.

"Listen to me, Dean," William began softly. "I understand what you're feeling. At least to some extent, I understand. And because of that I can't let you continue like this. There are safer ways to help you feel better… more controlled ways. I promise. And I can help you figure them out."

While William had started talking, Dean had taken it upon himself to start sipping at his drink, eyes still trained on the older man in front of him as he let the burn of the whiskey grace his tongue. He audibly scoffed at the notion, first off, that there was a safer way to cope, and secondly that it was something  _controlled_. The very notion of a lack of control was the thing that Dean had been thriving off of, what made that burning tingle in the back of his brain, the pins and needles fuzz that creeped up his spine, what made that overwhelming feeling of being crammed too tightly into a space while feeling too stretched out in others… go quiet. The lack of control. He'd give himself away to impulse and for once the voices that screamed at him would go numb. Controlling it seemed antithetical to what he needed.

Placing the glass down on the table, doing his best to not slam it, to draw any attention further to himself, he could hear his voice grow low, like it was dragged across rocks, mocking in its tone.

"Safer ways, huh? Controlled? And you think  _you_  can fuckin' help? Why you wanna help my ass anyway, I ripped your fuckin' ear off. What makes you think you can control this, old man. You tryna make me into you or somethin'?" Chuckling to himself, Dean stretched backwards, letting out a groan of relief as something in his back popped, his posture turned more slumped and relaxed as he let the relief and the alcohol-warmth slither down his nerves.

"I mean, let me know. What fancy fuckin' suggestion you got here. If you tell me it's a shrink, I'mma finish this whiskey, and I'mma head the fuck out and pretend this conversation never happened, because I ain't fuckin'  _crazy_ , and ain't nothin' no doctor's gonna be able to tell me to fix whatever the fuck is goin' on. So, nah. Better be somethin' that makes sense, if anythin' you  _do_  suggest's gonna make goddamn sense."

Why he was starting to get so defensive, he wasn't entirely sure. Yes, he and William had a brutal feud months prior, but he'd also seen how William vouched for him, how he'd mentor him in tiny ways, and how William said, in some sick gleeful manner, that he saw himself in Dean. That phrase had always sat with him in the pit of his stomach, some odd sense of approval from a superior he'd never received in his youth, and now, sitting across from him, the concern and yet amusement on the older man's face made his palms itch. He quickly moved to rub them against the roughened denim of his jeans, looking around nervously, an instinct from his minor dalliances with anxiety.

"Like… what the fuck is it."

William noticed with interest the way Dean dragged the inside of his hand against his thigh, calming immediately from the feeling. It only confirmed what he'd been thinking all evening, what he thought Dean might need to get right again. Or as right as he possibly could.

"I certainly don't think you're crazy," he conceded as he laced his hands one in the other on the table. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Though you may think that of me once I've finished explaining it to you."

Dean shrugged in spite of his uncertainty. "At this point? I dunno if anything you say can surprise me. Cut from the same cloth or whatever, right?"

His lip spent a few moments being chewed on before William cleared his throat and began.

"For you, it boils down to being able to control the amount of pain you receive and minimizing the damage to your body as a whole. What I'm suggesting to you is being able to explore a range of sensations. And not just physical sensations, either - I mean the essence of control itself, the concept of exchanging power with another person. Sort of… allowing them the illusion of free reign of your body and all of its feelings. It's an exchange of power, a dialogue of physicality and authority."

Dean felt his eyes glazing over as William went on with his lecture. Not that he didn't understand the words he was using, but he couldn't be sure what all of this bluster was going to add up to.

And William noticed his attention slipping. He wasn't going to get any further with this vague and long-winded dance around the subject. He really was going to have to put this bluntly if he was going to get anywhere with it.

"You've heard of 'bondage and discipline', haven't you?"

He was hearing things, clearly. This was purely a hallucination, because there was no actual way that he had truly heard the suggestion that he swore he had.  _Bondage and discipline_ , he hadn't seen anything suggested like that since when he was in Germany, and for the most part he had only heard about it from his peers like TJ and Masada, and even Sami had stumbled into odd neighborhoods at night and came back the following morning with stories to tell. Shaking his head, he found his voice wasn't nearly as protesting as his better sense told him he should be.

"N-nah, nah man, like… I mean, I've heard of it, fuck, I've been around, but like… Iunno if that's my  _thing_ , like… yeah, I've done worse, but like…" It was at this moment that Dean realized he couldn't find a good reason to say no besides his own fears. What if he liked it; what would that mean for him? How could he look at himself in the mirror and accept that he, a person who routinely victimized his opponents to the point of bleeding and pain and submission, would be someone to be restrained and beaten? Would he even want to subject himself to the risk of enjoying it?

Instead of speaking, he brought the glass of whiskey back to his lips, his hand shaking slightly as his mind fought with itself over what his next move was. He hadn't even been sure what William was suggesting beyond if Dean was aware of the meaning behind a phrase, and already his fight or flight was triggered, his throat feeling as if it were constricting, and there… there it was, the static in his brain again. The room felt twenty degrees hotter, and he wanted to burst out of his skin, just to have room to breathe. He wanted to close in upon himself and stop from feeling like he was rattling around in his own bones.

He felt so fucking  _off_.

As such, instinct took over: be a fucking turd.

"Why the fuck you askin', huh? Gonna get me someone to beat the fuck outta me or somethin'? Think an ass-kickin's gonna turn me the fuck around or somethin'? How the hell is that any different from the shit I've been doin' before?" Immediately the sneer and glimmer to his eyes returned, as if he hadn't had an incredible moment of vulnerability in front of the very man who was offering him a chance for relative peace. The back of his neck was clammy with sweat from the rising panic.

None of this escaped the watch of William, who had been noting every flinch of Dean's being.

Just trying to explain it in words would do nothing. Dean was never much a man of lectures or definitions or concepts. He let his actions speak for him. And William would have to do the same - demonstrate.

Before Dean could protest, William took his hand, the one scabbing over at the knuckles from earlier. His fingers were rough, as opposed to William's that had softened from his time outside the ring. Watching his eyes for any sign that it was becoming too much, William lightly began scratching Dean's palm, slowly dragging his nail against his skin.

"Now, Dean," he murmured, low in his throat but gentle and cool. "This can't do… Not at all. Look at what you've done to yourself, you've damaged this lovely, strong hand of yours. A good boy takes care of himself, you understand?"

What in the  _fuck_ was William doing? And why the fuck did he not want him to stop? Dean was just far too baffled to snatch his hand away… or maybe the feeling of his nail against his palm was helping relieve the endless itching in his brain. A bit of both. And the sound of his voice, scolding but soft, like a salve against the abrasions covering his nerves. The grit in his blood was smoothing at the sound of it, at the noises of caring directions. It was normally in his nature to reject anyone's authority, whether they thought it would benefit him or not. But this was… different.

His lips parted and his eyebrows twitched. Dean couldn't come up with any words at that moment, nor could he figure out what to do. His pride shouted at him to pull William close enough to punch him in the jaw, but no other part of him agreed.

"I really can't let this stand," William continued, scratching a little harder. "I must make sure this doesn't happen again. I'll have to punish you. I do hope you understand… it's for your own good." His nails dug into Dean's palm, not even close to breaking the skin, but causing an amount of pain and sensation he couldn't ignore if he tried.

 _Punish him?_  The brash side of him, the angry one that was all piss and vinegar and yelling, wanted to fight off the thought… but then William's nails would dig deeper into the palm of his hand, and he found his eyes fluttering shut for a moment.  _That's different_.

"Yeah… aight. Fuck it."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my writing partner made the decision to not continue with writing fanfic, and thus allowed me to move on with this fic on my own. Wishing her the best in everything she does in the future (as if I don't talk to her on the regular but whatevs it's for posterity). She did however work on the first half of this chapter and so credit where credit is due.

William wasn’t the one who should have been nervous. 

At least, that’s what he was thinking as he switched on the kettle, hands trembling. Dean was to arrive at his cottage at any moment for another meeting, one that he was anticipating just as much as he was dreading. 

This was something they had agreed to at least discuss. William had made that abundantly clear to his protege - he was in no way obligated to do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, or even anything at all. That’s what this evening was for, ostensibly. To lay out what they were and were not willing to do. What Dean needed from William, and what William could provide to him.

And this is what William continued to remind himself as he tapped his fingers against the counter, glanced at the clock every now and then, pondered if he’d polished the teacups recently before remembering Dean most likely wouldn’t care or even notice.

The nerves in his heart were already on tiptoe as he waited, and they gave a leap into his throat when he heard gravel crunching under tires in his driveway. 

_Invite him to have some tea,_ William thought to himself as he made his way to the front door. _Ask what he’s willing to do. Lead him if he doesn’t have the words. Should he need to, recommend that he go home and then never mention it again._

He did his best to regulate his breathing before opening the door.

Hands hastily shoved into his pockets, Dean had barely had a moment to wait at the door before it was opened for him, as if just the weight of his body on the welcome mat outside had triggered an automatic response. Nodding a silent hello at William, he shuffled his way inside, the hood of his zip-up sweatshirt over his head, the heather grey of the fabric almost the same shade of grey his eyes had become in his anxiety-filled ride over to the cottage.

The itching in his bones had only gotten worse since their conversation a few nights prior, and finally even his brain had started to mess with him, plaguing his dreams with these thoughts of pain and relief that kept him from the minimal sleep he did manage to get. 

Finally, now, despite the stickiness of the Florida rain storms that came and go with the blink of an eye, he found himself with a chill, recognizing that it was this new facet to his already odd relationship with the older gentleman, and the knowledge that for once, this was him using his body without the ability to bargain. He was laying himself out to receive pain with no recompense except supposed release. That frightened him. That terrified him.

It excited him beyond words, and that was bizarre.

“So. Uh.” Clearing his throat, Dean did his best to not sound nearly as awkward as he felt, but he was sure his body language alone was enough to give it away. Unzipping the jacket and sweatshirt, he hung them on the back of a chair, the plain black tee he wore beneath tight against his arms as he crossed them, unintentionally shielding himself as he started to approach the subject. “We uh… how’re we goin’ ‘bout this exactly?”

“Well,” William exhaled while pouring himself a cup of tea, “first, there’s not a single thing we’re going to go about doing until we’ve talked about it extensively.”

Dean’s bravado dropped clear into his stomach at that moment. He collapsed into the chair, hoping he looked casual doing it, and sucked in a breath. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about this shit. It had been difficult enough getting himself there without turning back for home, and even harder not to stand up and dash out the front door again. 

As much as he wanted it, he wanted it to be over and done with. Feel better without having to talk about it. 

Just like always.

“I appreciate that it’s going to be difficult,” his mentor went on, pouring a second cup of tea and offering it forward. “Talking about it, I mean. That’s never been easy for you, I know--”

“Nah, nah, it’s… s’fine.” He crossed his arms over his chest and quickly uncrossed them to take the cup from William’s hands, suddenly remembering whatever was left of his manners. He never really enjoyed tea very much, but it was something to do with his hands. And that always helped. “Ain’t got no problem talkin’ about it. Like, whatever, like, shoot me a question. Go ‘head.”

William nodded. He recognized this overconfidence, compensating for Dean’s nerves about this situation. Well, if it got to be too much, he could back out. No questions asked. And so, William began the conversation.

“I know it might be difficult to put words to it,” William began after taking a long sip, “but I’d like you to tell me what you need. Is it pain, certain sensations? Or is it the very act of being disciplined that attracts you?”

Dean, usually a creature of witty comebacks and a master weaver of words, found himself unable to fashion together a sentence that could accurately describe what exactly it was that he had needed. It wasn’t so much the pain, because there were moments where the pain was even too much for him, where it wasn’t satisfying and was nothing more than the sharp rip of flesh, the breaking of bone, the smell and taste of copper. And as for discipline? He was a known deviant, gutter-filth from the lower East End, a ‘street dog’, as much as the term went through him sideways. Discipline was far from anything on his list of desires.

He did his best to grasp blindly at the sensation he needed, his brain tumbling forth words that he hoped made sense, a stream of consciousness so very unlike himself.

“I’unno, man, like… ok, uh. You ever… you know those carbon copy forms they have at like DMVs or whatever? Y’know, it’s got the white and yellow and pink pages? If you fuck up how they line up, or whatever, doesn’t transfer over right?”

His glance over at Regal told him what he needed to know; the older gentleman was confused listening to him, trying to make sense of what he was saying, but his face still showed concern, interest, as if he were deeply invested in deciphering whatever deeper language it was that Dean was attempting to use.

“Like… I kinda feel like if you accidentally rip one of them pages out and try to put it back. You can line it up all nice, right, but the lines don’t exactly match up the way they used to. Shit’s just like a centimeter or whatever off, it ain’t right, it don’t look right, don’t feel right. Like when you open a soda bottle and the cap seal’s broken. Ain’t the same. Kinda feel like I’m not stuffed back in my body right? Like there’s itches I can’t reach, like.. like my body parts ain’t where they supposed to be or whatever, or that I need to stretch further than what I physically can, and it all boils down to this fuckin’ static in my head and it’s weird and I’unno, this don’t make sense, I’m sorry, I don’t know what the fuck I’m even sayin’.”

To his surprise, William nodded and confirmed, “I understand completely, Dean. It’s not an uncommon feeling, as much as you probably think it is. It’s one thing to need a sensation to remind one’s self that you are a being who exists in your body… Another to properly align them again.”

William stood and began approaching him, offering to take the tea cup from him to set it on the table. Dean gave it up and sighed, running a hand through his hair and staring at his lap.

“We will just have to try a few different things to find what’s going to work for you.” A hand slowly nestled under Dean’s chin and brought his face up to look into William’s eyes.

Even from that small gesture, just letting William control the direction of his head, sent a tingle up Dean’s spine. Maybe what he was doing to him wasn’t the important part. Maybe it was… just giving his control to someone else. To one of the few people he felt he was able to trust.

Just being able to let go of himself for a bit, let someone else make the decisions.

“Yeah.” He said it before he even realized his mouth was hanging open. Dean swallowed hard as he let William’s gaze melt into him. Dean felt like he was floating a few inches off the ground. “Just… just gotta try some different stuff.”

“What’s most important, Dean,” the older one emphasized as he made sure he was listening and understanding, “is that you tell me the moment something isn’t working for you. The moment it’s too much, the moment it’s hurting rather than helping, you speak up and we stop immediately and talk about it.”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

“We need a safety. So you can say whatever you want in the moment, and I’ll keep with it. If the safety is said, that means we will stop. The easiest to use is ‘red light’, for example. It’s unlikely to be said in casual conversation and it easily conveys what needs to happen. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah...”

William nodded and took in a breath. This was a bit nervous for him, too. To have someone like Dean put this much trust in him… He had to do it right. 

“Kneel at my feet, if you please, Dean.”

It was one thing to talk about it, to theorize it happening… it was another to be asked, point blank, to kneel at anyone’s feet. His first reaction was to fight, to argue, to refuse to lower himself, but that was why he was here, wasn’t he? To see if perhaps this very thing, his offering of his body to someone experienced, someone who promised to help him traverse this muck in his head... to see if it worked.

Pushing himself up from the chair, it was with clammy palms and tensed muscles that Dean found himself slowly lowering himself to the ground, his more prideful side screaming in refusal, only to grow deathly silent the moment his knees touched the varnished wood of the floor. 

_That’s new._ It wasn’t just his pride that quieted. It was everything else else as well - that itch he felt for several days straight, the voice in his head telling him to relieve it in whatever possible way he could. They were there, still. Waiting. Holding their breath.

But quiet.

He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands, and his posture was still that of unease and confusion. Resting his hands against his lap - there was nowhere else he could think to place them at the time - he swallowed nervously, looking around to distract himself from the admittedly awkward predicament he found himself in.

“Uh. Now what.”

“Now…” William sighed as he reached behind Dean’s head to stroke his hair. “Now we try out a few different sensations. Like this one.” He let his fingers file through Dean’s curly locks, delicately fingering the soft strands. His fingernails soon came into play, as well. A light scratching began all over the back of his scalp.

Goose prickles sprang up all over Dean’s arms, he shivered under the touch, half tickling and half alleviating the discomfort in his entire body. Like he’d been itching for hours but unable to reach it. A warmth started building at the pit of his stomach and his spine felt like it was turning to jelly. 

Dean heard a moan escape from his throat before he could stop it. And the moment he realized what had happened, he found his cheeks burning. He definitely didn’t mean to make that noise. Not front of William…

On the contrary, William found himself smirking. To elicit that reaction out of him, make him groan like that and unable to contain it... 

He was hardening.

William was the one to blush, then. He hoped it wasn’t terribly obvious, and crouched down to meet Dean at eye level to at least give him time to get a hold of himself. But his darker instincts were taking over at this point and it was difficult to stop them. He wondered for a moment if he should even try…

After all, this is what Dean needed. It would have been wrong to deny what he had promised to provide.

“Look at you,” William mumbled, forcing Dean’s wandering eyes to look at him again. “Can’t even contain yourself… You truly need this, don’t you? You need me to help you… regain control. And I will… by taking it from you for a little bit.” With that, he tightened his grip and pulled his hair back, just enough to hurt, just enough to send that sweet stinging sensation over his scalp.

And suddenly Dean understood exactly how this was going to work.

There was nothing in his head from the moment he felt William start tugging the pain out of him, as if he’d just opened a steam vent in his mind. His anxieties, his deep and intangible pain from years of misery and emotional fatigue. He could drop them. It didn’t matter to him then how long it might last. Dean was grateful just to have this moment, where he could just…  
Let go of everything.

“Aah, aahhh…!” Dean gasped, the hint of a whine touching the edges of his voice. “Fuck, fuck, god--” He couldn’t stop himself from swearing up a storm, so deep into this from just these few little things William had done to him. 

Even everything he had worried about in driving to his house, what others might think if they found out what he was doing, what they would assume about him, the look on Seth Rollins’ face if he knew Dean Ambrose was on his knees and moaning and squirming at William Regal’s feet.

Fuck it.

He needed this. 

William let go of his hair. Dean hadn’t used the safety, but he had to do this the right way. No use overwhelming him on the first go of it. “What do you say?”

God dammit, now he wanted him to talk again. How the fuck was he supposed to know what to say? The words “thank you sir, may I have another” popped into his head and Dean had to contain a sudden bout of laughter he felt bubbling up. But he could do better than that. William expected the best out of Dean from the very day they met. Even if he couldn’t manage not to fuck up getting booked on TV, he wouldn’t fuck this up.

“Please,” the younger one let fall from his lips. “Please. I-I need… I need more.” The lump in his throat matched that knot of tension in his stomach, which was all too familiar to him. It was the same one he anticipated every time he brought someone back to his hotel room late at night, or when he woke up in the middle of the night alone and restless and needing to tire himself out again somehow. Having to beg William to keep going, the lovely ache on the back of his head…

Dean realized that the position he was sitting in didn’t lend itself well to hiding a boner.

“Fuck, sorry,” he said abruptly, having hunched over and covered his crotch with his hands. Bashfulness wasn’t something he was used to, normally, but this situation was the exact opposite of normal. “Didn’t… mean to--”

“We’ll call it a side effect for now,” William interrupted. The grin on his lips read of a rather unexpected empathy, he realized. “It’s all right, dear boy.” He patted Dean on the shoulder and glanced downward before meeting his eyes again. “Ah… you… aren’t the only one, if that helps.”

Dean nodded. If they were both awkward… at least they were in it together. He let his hands fall to his sides, then. It was pulsing against the denim, shoved against his right leg and clearly bulging for anyone present to see. In turn, William stood up, revealing just how strained the fabric of his pressed suit pants was against his own arousal.

Dean was nodding again, his mouth hanging open and trying to form some sort of response to this ridiculous situation. One that he found himself not wanting to leave for anything.

William shook his head lightly and took a deep breath. “We can worry about it later. For now… up.”

Dean was on his feet before he could even think about it. It disturbed him just how easy this was, but at the same time it felt… so fucking good to do the precise opposite of what his pride had always made him do. To follow his gut and not his worries. 

A hand planted itself on the back of his neck and suddenly they were walking slowly over to the couch, Dean letting himself be led there. William let go of him and sat down, motioning for him to sit in the space next to him. Dean carefully lowered himself to the couch, in direct opposition to how he would usually toss himself against the furniture. William was clearly being careful with him, so it followed he should be careful with himself…

William swallowed hard, ignoring the fluttering of his heartbeat as much as he could. “I think we should… try something. Since you reacted so well to those first few sensations. Please let me know if it makes you uncomfortable--”

Dean shook his head. “Fuck it,” he repeated for probably the twentieth time that day. “‘M already here. Already pitched a fuckin’ tent big enough for you t’see. Tell me what it is.”

“Well. Ah.” He cleared his throat in the mildest attempt to stall. “This is sort of one of the basics. So I think you might enjoy… being spanked.”

“Oh.”


End file.
